


Gender Roles and Gyms

by ratedgrandr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: TW: Blood, tw: boxing violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/pseuds/ratedgrandr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wow talk about worst title for a fic ever though. But really, the title explains it all. Bahorel and Grantaire are part of a boxing club at the gym.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gender Roles and Gyms

When they pull up to the squat, gloomy looking gym, Bahorel lets out a string of profanities that cause even Grantaire to arch his brows. He gives his boyfriend a sidelong look from his spot in the driver’s seat, and immediately Bahorel grumbles, running his hands through his hair. “I forgot my gym bag before I went to Cosette’s,” he explains as he gestures towards his attire. He’s spent the afternoon with the blonde who had needed some help fixing her broken sink, and the small handyman favor had turned into girls’ afternoon in, it seems. Bahorel’s freshly painted fingernails haven’t gone unnoticed by Grantaire, nor has the fact that he’d entered the car humming ‘at last I see the Light’ from Tangled. It isn’t unusual and if anything, it just makes Grantaire love Bahorel that much more.

Grantaire is used to Bahorel’s appearance outside of the gym. Their boxing mates aren’t. So when the burly, tough Bahorel shows up in a pair of skinny jeans that hug his ass (quite nicely, Grantaire thinks) and a pink v-neck with a cardigan over top of it all, eyebrows are raised, teasing cat calls are made, and one man goes as far as to ask when the name change is coming. Immediately Grantaire can see the way Bahorel seethes and squirmes, how distressed he seems, having been made fun of for something that was so much a part of who he was.

“So do you want us to address you as queen now?” a man named Joe teases as they all stand about for a moment in the locker room. Grantaire has lent Bahorel an extra pair of shorts (because trying to box in skinny jeans is just ridiculous), but he’s still wearing the pink shirt, and if anything his chest is puffed out a bit proudly. Grantaire rolls his eyes as Bahorel scoffs at Joe, who is chuckling with his friends. “You’ve even got your nails done!” the man crows as he gestures towards Bahorel’s flamboyantly baby blue nails and guffaws, laughing with a few of the other men.

“Hey, cut it out guys. He probably just spent the afternoon with his niece or something,” one guy, Tony, Bahorel remembers his name is, defends. Bahorel and R exchange a look as Bahorel shakes his head.

“Just a good friend. She’s sweet, we had lunch and watched a movie,” Bahorel says with an easy shrug of his shoulders. All of the men arch their brows and Grantaire rolls his eyes for the final time.

“Are we gonna gossip or go and box? For fuck’s sake, it’s just a pink shirt and some damn nail polish,” he defends his boyfriend with a huff, and Bahorel squeezes his hand.

 

But Joe isn’t done, and when he pipes up Grantaire glares at him purposefully. “If Bahorel can even remember how to box that is,” he chuckles as they start toward the boxing ring in the back of the gym. Everyone follows, tension filling the small group as they all stretch and throw a few practice punches. It’s not unusual for them to pair off with normal sparring partners - Grantaire with a man named Keith who is about his size and Bahorel with Tony. Today, though, Bahorel slides into the ring with ease and points at Joe.

“You. Up here. Now.”

Joe’s eyes widen slightly and for a moment fear flashes before an easy smirk hides any other emotion. “Right, well. Of course the Queen wants to try and redeem herself. Let’s just hope she hasn’t completely forgotten what she’s doing,” he smirks as he enters the ring and the rest of the men gather around as they laugh and make small jokes of their own. Grantaire scoffs at the ignorance surrounding them and smiles up at his boyfriend weakly, feeling bad for Joe and what he has coming.

Bahorel is a rash, violent man on the surface. But beneath all of that he’s rational, he’s sweet and he’s understanding. But he has buttons, and if you press the right ones his tolerance completely drops and the impetuous attitude he’s infamous for shines through. Grantaire loves him no matter what actions and choices he makes, and today he doesn’t blame Bahorel for his frustrations. Their friends are wonderful and no one questions his love of spending time with Cosette, his affinity for skinny jeans and the color pink, or the fact that he can put together an outfit better than Eponine can. But the outside world has never been as forgiving, and stereotypes run high at places where testosterone is used as a measure of one’s self-worth like the gym they are currently at.

Granted, R is positive Bahorel has twice over as much testosterone and adrenaline currently coursing through him, and as the first blow is delivered the cynic winces for Joe, who already has blood dripping from his nose from the precisely placed punch by Bahorel.

Joe tries to regain the upper hand, but he’s lacking and Grantaire can tell he is in pain. He frowns slightly as Bahorel hits the man again, at another pressure point that sends him toppling to the ground and completely spent. In two blows. “Now. You wanna call me a fucking queen again?” Bahorel hisses at the man as he hovers over him. Joe moans and shakes his head as he curls his knees into his stomach. “That’s what I fucking thought. I’m much too fabulous to be a fucking queen.”

Bahorel’s well delivered blows and parting lines leave the men gaping after him as he wipes the slight sheen of sweat from his brow and exits the ring to kiss Grantaire without much hesitance or conservation, tongue gently sweeping through Grantaire’s mouth as Bahorel’s large, calloused hand very openly gropes at his ass. Grantaire can’t help but squeak into the man’s lips, though whether it’s meant to be a moan of arousal or a squeak of protest is anyone’s guess. The boxing club just stares as the two interlock fingers and smirk at each other, heading for the exit.

It takes a minute for them to reach the car, but when they slide in Bahorel’s face falls. “I shoulda made sure he was ok first.”

Grantaire hums and kisses Bahorel once more, nipping at his lower lip. “He was surrounded by ten guys, one of which is a paramedic. I think he’ll be ok. You don’t owe him anything. He was a dick to you,” Grantaire points out, lips only millimeters from Bahorel’s.

He’s still frowning though, as he inspects his now chipped fingernails. “I shouldn’ta taken it out on him, ya know?” he says skeptically, his brow slightly furrowed as Grantaire presses their foreheads together.

“What, your anger at his ignorance? If you ask me, the bastard deserved it.”

Bahorel tries to hide his smirk. “Did you see his face after that first hit?”

 

Grantaire nods enthusiastically. “Looked like he was about to shit himself!” He laughs as he pulls the car out and starts toward the Musain. “And, for the record, I really think that shade of blue is your color,” he teases, winking playfully towards his boyfriend as they drive.


End file.
